Play Dead
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Victor Van Dort is a boy without many friends. But sometimes one very good friend is enough. For Victor, that very good friend is his dog, Scraps.


**Author's Note:** "Corpse Bride" isn't mine. I had someone ask me to write a story about a young Victor, and this idea was what came to mind.

**Play Dead**

"Good boy!" Victor exclaimed, delighted. "Who's a good boy?"

Scraps, his dog, had finally learned to sit on command. It had taken about a week. "Beg" had been easy. "Lie Down" had presented a bit more difficulty, and "Roll Over" had required two days of work as well as every treat Victor could find. "Sit," though, had been a real challenge for energetic little Scraps. Victor hadn't even bothered with "Stay" yet.

"Scraps is a good boy!" Victor answered himself, scratching the little dog behind his ears. "A very smart boy!" Scraps looked very pleased. Victor held out a sardine, which the dog made disappear with one happy lick. Grinning, Victor gave him another ear scratch.

At least someone liked the sardines. When Father wasn't home and it was the housekeeper's day off, tea usually consisted of sardines on toast. It was the only dish that Mother knew how to make. There were always fresh sardines on hand, too, since Father used them to test his new canning equipment out in the garden shed.

This evening, not very hungry and not really in the mood for a meal that could stare at him, Victor had sneaked the sardines one by one off of his toast, then into his napkin, and from there into his pocket, intending to use them for training. He figured it didn't count as feeding Scraps from the table, which Mother disapproved of. Technically, he was feeding him from his pocket.

Victor Van Dort and Scraps, aged seven and puppy respectively, lived with Father and Mother in a tall, narrow, crooked house in a tiny walled-in village. There were three floors, and each storey jutted out over the street a little more than the previous one. In all it gave the effect of the house's attic trying to lean over to gossip with the grocer's across the street. There was a little back garden that butted right up against the south village wall, where Victor sometimes sat to draw if the smell of fish from the shed wasn't too strong. Nearby was the fish market where his father and grandfather worked, and beyond that was the town square, where all the nice houses and shops were.

Victor only very rarely ventured all the way out to the square. It was a bit too busy for him. He preferred to sit in his room and read his books about butterflies. The forest was nice on those rare days that the weak sunlight was able to penetrate the gloom. Most of all, though, he liked it where he was now, on the slightly warped boards of the kitchen floor, teaching his dog tricks.

Scraps was Victor's best friend. There weren't many children in the village. The only other seven-year-old was Lord Everglot's daughter, and of course Victor only knew _of _her. The other boys in town were all older than he was, and even then there were only three of them. And they were all friends with each other rather than with him. But that was all right. Victor was happy enough on his own. Mostly.

"All right, now," said Victor, standing and backing away. "Sit. Good boy! Who's my smart boy? Now—play dead!"

Scraps just sat there, tongue lolling in a happy dog smile. Victor tutted.

"Play dead!" he tried again, more firmly this time. Scraps, though, merely cocked his head to the side, making a little whining noise as he did so. After a moment he stood up on his hind legs, his hopeful eyes on Victor's pocket.

"No, boy," Victor said, amused. "That's a different trick. This time, you're to play dead."

Plainly the little dog did not understand. Perhaps it was time for a review.

"Look, you see," said Victor, kneeling on the floor in front of the dog. "Play dead. Remember? You flop over onto your side"-Victor did so, slowly, so that Scraps could get the idea-"and then you roll onto your back!"

This Victor also demonstrated, closing his eyes and letting his tongue protrude ever so slightly from his mouth. Just for good measure, he also put his arms and legs in the air stiffly. When he opened his eyes he found Scraps standing over him, breathing hot doggy sardine breath into his face.

"That's all right," said Victor, reaching up to give Scraps' chin a scratch. "I'm out of sardines, anyway."

"Victor, what _are _you doing over there?"

Guiltily Victor sat up and glanced across the room at her. Mother was in her rocking chair by the window, looking at him over the top of her illustrated ladies magazine.

"Don't roll about on the floor, especially not with that mutt," Mother scolded. "You'll get fleas. Come here and sit in the parlor with me."

With extreme reluctance, and an apologetic glance at Scraps, Victor got up, brushed off his trousers, and joined Mother in the little living area near the front door. It didn't really deserve to be called a parlor. Nobody in this part of the village had parlors in their houses. The fact that Mother insisted on being so fancy was an ongoing source of embarrassment for Victor. He didn't fit in all that well to begin with, and her airs only made him stand out even more in the neighborhood. The strange, awkward, bookish boy with the loud, brassy mother.

Sighing, Victor picked up his dog-eared popular entomology book from the side table. Mother eyed him beadily as he settled himself into Father's armchair, propping the book open on his lap. Scraps, lonesome on his own in the kitchen, came into the sitting area to lie down by Victor's chair.

"Don't you think you've read that book enough?" Mother asked with a bit of a sniff. "Really, you read too much for a boy. You could at least read those boys' magazines, couldn't you? I hear that's what all the proper, quality boys read."

Victor held his book closer to his face, trying to ignore her. He liked insects and animals. Mother didn't care much for either. She approved of society. Not so much science. Or anything else that Victor was interested in. For a few minutes they sat in silence, Victor quickly losing himself in the section on beetles. In the armchair with his book, his Mother rocking next to him, and his dog at his feet, Victor very nearly felt normal. Like any other boy, with chums and regular mothers, able to navigate the world with ease.

When Mother leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder, Victor nearly leapt out of his skin. He only barely managed not to squeak in surprise.

"Have a look, Victor! When we're rich, you can dress like this all the time!" she said, holding out the magazine toward him. "Won't that be smashing? You'll be just like all the boys from old money. Not that they're a bit better than us, mind."

She pointed to a photographic reproduction. Victor looked. There stood a very bored-looking boy about his age. Next to him sat a regal Great Dane. Then Victor looked at the outfit the boy was wearing. It was a sailor suit. With very short trousers. He did not think he could pull off that look. Besides, he liked his plain old knee-length trousers and plain old shirts just fine.

"Don't you make that face at me," Mother said when she caught his eye. Clearly he'd been unable to keep his opinion of the fancy clothes from showing on his face. "That, I will have you know, is the youngest son of the Duke."

"Sorry," Victor said, hoping he sounded contrite enough. It seemed to be enough for Mother, as she went back to glancing between her magazine and the clock. Sometimes she'd lean back and pull the curtain aside to look out the window.

"Now _where _can your father be?" Mother said after yet another glance into the street. Victor looked at the clock. Father _was _much later than usual. Just as she spoke, though, footsteps were audible coming down the street outside.

The front door opened, and in stepped Father. As always he brought with him the odor of fish. Mother put aside her magazine and stepped over to take his hat and cloak.

"Evening, dear. Evening, Victor," Father said, running a hand through his hair. He usually looked tired when he got home in the evenings, but Victor thought tonight he looked especially so. "Sorry to be so la-"

"Just where have you been? Why are you so late?" Mother asked, cutting him off. Oddly, Father glanced at Victor before he replied.

"I've been at my father's," he said. "Today, well—and terribly sorry for not sending a note or a message, but-"

"Come on, William, out with it," Mother said, impatient as she hung the cloak and hat on their pegs near the door. After one more glance at Victor, Father took a step closer to her.

"I just stopped the clock at Father's house," he told her in a low voice. For a moment there was a deep silence. And then, with what could only be called a whoop, Mother flung herself into Father's arms.

Victor stared, shocked. He'd never ever seen Mother do anything like that before. Or look so happy.

"Our ship's finally come in!" she cried, letting go of Father.

Without warning, she swooped down on Victor, hoisting him bodily into the air and swinging him about. Victor's initial brief burst of terror mellowed into shock, and then into something very close to pleasure.

Mother was smiling. _Smiling_. A big smile.

When his feet hit the floor again he wobbled, and Mother held him by the shoulders until he regained his balance. Victor didn't know what to think. Mother was touching him, and not just to brush dirt off him or pull him away from something. It was as scary as it was...well, oddly nice. Quite forgetting herself in her excitement, she even ruffled his hair before stepping back to Father. Scraps, catching her mood, shook himself, yipped, and pranced in a little circle before butting his head into Victor's side in a friendly fashion.

Not quite the type to whoop, Victor merely grinned and threw his hands in the air. "Hooray! Our ship! It's in!" he cried, just as exuberantly as he dared despite not knowing what he was talking about. "What ship?"

Mother was still fit to burst, doing a little jig all by herself in the middle of the room, but Father suddenly got quiet. Slowly, Victor put his arms down, carefully watching Father's face.

"Well, son," he said, kneeling down and putting a hand on Victor's shoulder, "This isn't very easy, I know, bit of a shock…I suppose I should just tell you. Your grandfather died this evening."

"Died?" Victor repeated, and Father nodded.

All the happiness seemed to drain right out of him, out of his feet and into the floor. Died. Grandfather. Death wasn't something he knew all that much about, except that you were put in the ground and never came back. He'd not see Grandfather anymore…Hazy as he might be on the precise details, Victor was pretty sure that news of a death wasn't usually met with whooping and dancing. Clearly, Mother didn't feel the same.

"And about time, too!" she cried, taking Father by the arm and jerking him back to his feet. Holding hands, they whirled about in a little circle. "We're off! Van Dort's Canned Fish is in business!"

Confused and a little sad, Victor just stood for a moment, his hand on Scraps' head, and watched his parents celebrate. The dog seemed to sense his feelings, for he edged a bit closer, letting his warm side rest against Victor's leg.

"Please excuse me," Victor said to Father and Mother, who were still embracing in the middle of the room. They didn't seem to notice him. "I think I'll go to bed. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, son," Father replied off-handedly. Still unsettled, Victor began climbing the staircase, Scraps padding alongside him.

"Don't you let that dog get up on your bed, now!" Mother called up after him, plainly not so happy that she'd forgotten to disapprove of Scraps.

"I won't, Mother," Victor lied. He needn't have bothered. She wasn't paying him any attention any longer.

Up to his room he and Scraps went, the sounds of his parents' excited conversation following him all the way.

0—0

Six months later, Victor Van Dort was well on his way to being the wealthiest boy in town. It hadn't taken long after Grandfather's death for Father to close the fish stall and open an honest-to-goodness cannery and shop right on the square.

Van Dort's Fish. In cans. Victor had heard the word "revolutionary" used once or twice, though he was unsure of what that meant. Now Victor's father employed most of his former colleagues, as well as a few servants. There was talk of building a big house right on the square, right across from the imposing Everglot mansion. The Van Dorts were getting to be very rich indeed. Or, as Mother put it, "quality."

Now that he was quality, Victor had to play with a hoop and a stick. And wear a sailor suit. At least, that was what his mother said, and she made the rules.

Victor hated being quality. The sailor suit part especially.

Today Victor and Scraps were playing in the alley beside the cannery. Rather, Scraps was digging through cast-off fish parts for anything tasty, and Victor was bouncing the wooden hoop repeatedly off of the cannery wall. The alley was a nice place to play, especially when one was dressed like a twit and being forced to play with a toy which required coordination that one simply did not possess.

The alley also had the added protection of being near both his father's place of business and near Mayhew, who cleaned fish for Father at the cannery and drove the Van Dort carriage the rest of the time. He was also Victor's unofficial bodyguard. While not quite the same thing as being chums with the village boys, it was nice to have another friend besides Scraps. Mayhew was quiet, accepting, and usually good for a laugh or two. There was nobody else quite like him.

In the time between now and Mayhew's next break, when Victor planned to join him for lunch (eating with the help—yet another item on the long list of Victor's activities which Mother did not approve of), Victor was determined to make the hoop work.

There didn't seem to be much of a trick to it. The other boys in the village played with them. Victor had seen them, running up and down the narrow streets, laughing and taunting each other. Now that he was quality, Victor was even less popular with the village boys than before. He hadn't quite thought that was possible.

Feeling sorry for himself broke his concentration, and all of the sudden the hoop leapt away from the stick and veered madly to the right, ricocheting off a discarded packing crate and rolling of its own accord down the alley. It slowed, wobbled pathetically, and then tipped over. Scraps ran over to investigate, and Victor let the stick drop to the ground in frustration.

"Oh, my giddy aunt," he grumbled, parroting words he heard Father use often. Immediately he glanced around to make sure no one had heard. Victor was unsure of how close to bad language that phrase was. Luckily no one was about. Ever helpful, Scraps took the hoop in his little jaws and dragged it over to Victor.

"Good boy," Victor said glumly, taking the hoop and patting Scraps on the head.

"Ahoy there, Admiral!" came a voice from behind him, making him jump.

George Van Schelven, who Victor was expected to be friends with because their fathers were friends, was coming down the street. He was two years older than Victor, and huge. Though Victor was a good head taller, George was about three times as broad. On his own he wasn't so bad, just a little too loud and quick with fists for Victor's taste. When he got with the other village boys, though, he went into full-on bully mode. And Victor was a favorite target.

Wary, Victor took a step or two back as George got closer. Scraps, not a wary bone in his little body, trotted over to George to sniff a hello.

"Hullo, dog. Nice suit, Van Dort," said George. When Victor didn't say anything, he continued, "Haven't seen you around much, since you got to be money and all. You know, since your father got to be the big boss. Must be pretty nice."

While the tone was light, Victor could detect a strand of nastiness somewhere in there. Envy, maybe? George's parents weren't all that well-off—his father was a fisherman, and worked for Victor's father. Maybe that was the problem, somehow? Though Victor really hadn't any idea why it would be.

"It's…fine," Victor said carefully, praying that a trip or shove wasn't imminent. George looked at him closely until Victor was uncomfortable enough to look away, and then cracked his knuckles. Threateningly? Victor couldn't tell.

"You know, if you start the hoop rolling first, and then use the stick to keep it going, it'll work better," George told him, giving Scraps a rather rough pat on the head. Scraps didn't seem to mind, but Victor winced a little.

Unsure whether or not this was a trick, Victor kept quiet. Noticing his look, George gave a little grin.

"Here, I'll show you," George said, holding out his hand for the hoop and stick. After a moment's hesitation, Victor handed them over.

"Watch," said George, and with that he was off. Victor didn't even see what he did. Yet somehow the hoop stayed upright and rolling at a good clip, the stick practically an extension of George's arm. Barking happily, Scraps took off down the alley after him.

Frowning with disappointment and not a little embarrassment at being so weedy and easily shown up, Victor kicked at a bit of loose cobblestone. Even Scraps, in the end, thought he was too useless to play with. Though George hadn't hit him. He was actually being..._friendly_. Victor perked up a bit. Maybe this was a turning point, despite the silly clothes and new money.

As the alleyway was short, it didn't take long for George to execute a turn—_and keep the hoop rolling!_-and dash back to where Victor stood. Scraps ran alongside the, yipping and playfully snapping at the hoop.

"Here, have'em back," said George, handing it over. "Try it like that next time. It'll work."

All Victor could do was nod. He was too flabbergasted to do anything else. Just as Victor took the proffered hoop and stick, there was a snort from behind them. The two of them turned to see the other two village boys at the end of the alley. They both had hoops and sticks of their own, and seemed to project menace.

"Ooh, so you're best friends with the boss's son now, huh?" one of them said.

"Yeah George, you traitor," said the other.

Victor let his shoulders slump, and looked quickly at George, whose expression was a queer mix of shame, annoyance, and uncertainty. It quickly passed, though. Victor should have known it would.

"Not me, not in a million years!" George called at the boys, cracking his knuckles again. Victor tried to make himself even smaller, eyes cast down, gripping his hoop and stick tightly. He could feel his cheeks get warm with embarrassment, and wanted nothing more than to disappear. When he brought his eyes back up, he found George looking up at him.

"This isn't personal," he said in a low voice, sounding apologetic. And, before Victor could blink, George shoved him into a pile of smelly, damp fishing nets. Winded and dazed, he watched George and the other boys take off down the street toward the square.

Victor lay for a moment, slimy dampness seeping into his hated sailor suit, listening to the fading laughter and taunts. Even when he was alone he continued to sit, even though the salty fish smell was beginning to get to him. Just when he thought he might have just a bit of normalcy, that others might like him a bit, he got pushed around. With a sigh he tossed the hoop and stick on the ground next to him. Victor lacked the energy to stand up. He might as well just rot here behind the cannery.

The tell-tale clickety-click of dog paws on the cobblestones made him turn his head. Scraps was at his side, mouth lolling open, his tale wagging. Plainly wondering when the game would continue. After a moment's thought, Victor pointed toward the street, where George and the other boys had gone.

"Sic them, please," Victor told Scraps. Scraps tilted his head, then sat down, tail beating against the cobblestones. When that got no response, Scraps stood up on his hind legs, gaze ever hopeful.

"No, boy," said Victor. "Not that one. But that's all right, we've not done 'sic' yet."

With a deep sigh, he hauled himself off the nets, grimacing in disgust when his hands came away all covered in fish slime. For lack of anything better, he wiped his palms on his trousers. If nothing else, perhaps Mother wouldn't make him wear this again if it got too dirty. Scraps didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he was fascinated by the fish odor, and shoved his cold little nose into Victor's palm.

"No fish just now," Victor told him, patting his head. "Sorry."

He glanced at his hoop and stick, and considered leaving them in the alley. But no. Mother was bound to ask what had happened to it. So he bent and picked them up, and, after a moment's thought, held out the stick to Scraps.

"Let's go, Scraps," he said, leading the way back to the street. Scraps trotted alongside, carrying the comically large stick in his mouth.

_0—0_

"_There _you are!" Mother cried.

Victor stopped cold, eyes wide. He and Scraps had stepped out of the alley only to nearly collide with Mother. In full outing attire, complete with her widest-brimmed and most befeathered hat, Mother was standing outside of Van Dort's Fish with Mayhew.

"Afternoon, Master Victor. You see, ma'am, I knew he was about somewhere," said Mayhew with a nervous little laugh, which cut off abruptly when Mother shot him a dangerous sort of look. Scraps, who liked Mayhew just as much as Victor did, gave a happy little yip and trotted over to him, laying the stick at his feet.

"Ah, thank you very much, Master Scraps," Mayhew said, picking up the stick and dropping a pat on the dog's head. Victor couldn't help smiling. Mother, overhearing, rolled her eyes upward so hard it looked for a moment as though they might stick that way. Huffing and shaking her head, she turned back to Victor, whose smile immediately faltered.

"Hel-hello, Mother," he said, only daring to look as far up as the cameo on her collar. Quickly he ran through everything he'd done that day, trying to figure out what he had done to upset Mother. He couldn't think of a thing. He was wearing the sailor suit, he was playing with the hoop, he was out of the house...To buy time, he added pleasantly, "H-how are you, Mother?"

"Just what were you doing?" she demanded before the question had fully left his mouth. She pulled herself up to full height, hands on hips and tapping her foot. "I told you to be home, we're going to have your photograph done! And now we'll be late!"

Behind her, Mayhew gave Victor an unsure grin and a helpless sort of shrug. Victor looked down at his hoop, embarrassed. The photograph. Right. Come to think of it, there _had _been that feeling that he'd forgotten something. In all the kerfuffle with the hoop, and then George...

"I f-forgot, Mother," he admitted, his voice small. "I'm sorry." But it was useless. Mother was off.

"And look at this, your new suit!" she cried. She took him by the shoulders and turned him in a circle as she continued to scold. "I knew I shouldn't have let you go out in it. Just look at your back! What were you doing, playing in bait? You know, just because we have to make our money from fish doesn't mean we have to _look _like we do...and for heaven's sake stand up straight, your posture is terrible!"

"Oh, I suppose there's nothing to be done," Mother finally sighed, giving his collar one more adjustment and his back one more rough brush. Stepping back, she eyed him critically. "Yes, that's fine, we're only having your front photographed, after all..."

Relieved, Victor let himself slump a little. For Mother, this was letting him off easy.

"We're already late. Get into the carriage. Now," Mother said, her voice low and dangerous.

Victor scrambled immediately to do as she said, only noticing when he was sitting down that he was still holding his hoop. Grinning, Mayhew handed him the stick, then handed Mother in, the carriage creaking and tilting a bit under her weight. Smoothing her hair and straightening her hat, she settled back in the seat next to Victor.

"Er, ma'am?" Mayhew asked, holding up a wriggling Scraps. Plainly harassed, Mother heaved a sigh and looked from the dog to Mayhew to Victor and back again.

"Oh, tie him up behind the shop, he'll be fine," she said, waving a hand dismissively. Victor gasped.

"No!" he cried before he could stop himself. "Don't tie him up alone!"

Plainly shocked at his outburst, Mother turned slowly toward Victor. Under her incredulous and swiftly darkening look, he realized he'd better say something else. Fast.

"I mean, er, please, may Scraps come?" he asked timidly, his nerve disappearing almost as quickly as it had come. He couldn't just leave Scraps tied up in the alley. Anything could happen to him. Besides, having Scraps along would be a comfort. Particularly with Mother in the testy mood she was in.

"Hm," she murmured, crossing her arms. Victor looked out at poor Scraps, who was trying to run in midair to join Victor in the carriage, his puppy eyes seeming sad and confused. That expression on the dog's face filled Victor with a new resolve, and, out of nowhere, he had a flash of genius.

"One of the duke's sons posed with his dog for a photograph," Victor said, even daring to look Mother square in the eye. "Remember? It was in the magazine you showed me once. He had a suit like mine, and his dog."

"Yes, you know, you're right," she said slowly, sounding surprised. Even, dare he think, a little impressed. "And here I thought you weren't paying attention!"

Victor did his best to look unassuming as Mother looked at him closely. Something—regret? affection? sympathy?-seemed to flicker across her face, but it passed so quickly Victor couldn't be sure he'd seen anything at all. So he waited. Mayhew waited. Scraps waited, still in midair, tail wagging. All eyes were on Mother.

"Oh fine," she said with a huff, opening the carriage door herself. "Go on, quickly, before I change my mind."

Mayhew tried to place Scraps gently on the floor of the carriage, but Scraps, excited, sprang out of his hands and landed with a stumble next to Victor's feet. Upon recovery he immediately tried to jump up on the seat next to Victor.

"Ugh, Victor, how many times must I tell you?" Mother scolded. "Keep that dog from jumping up like that!"

"Down, Scraps," Victor said, holding Scraps' collar to keep him and his wildly flailing tail at bay. With a disappointed whine, Scraps obeyed, and was quiet. He even sat without being asked, though that could have been because the carriage had just jolted into motion.

"Now let's have no more trouble, understood?" Mother said, pointing a finger right at Victor's nose. He nodded to show that yes, he understood. Then, she pointed at Scraps, who just tilted his head at her. With a brisk nod, Mother turned away.

After that, the ride was quiet. Scraps didn't make a sound, only glancing up now and again with a doleful stare. Eventually Victor reached down and scratched him behind the ears.

"You're my good boy, Scraps," Victor assured him. After that, Scraps seemed to cheer up a little. With difficulty, as the carriage was moving, Scraps did his customary two full turns in a circle, and then lay down with his head on his paws.

"A very good boy," Victor repeated. He figured it would do Scraps good to hear. Glancing sideways at Mother, he wished, a little, that those words were ones that he heard more often.

0—0

"Now there's a photograph!" Father said proudly, stepping back to admire it. "Very sharp, Victor, very sharp indeed!"

The photograph of Victor and Scraps, newly delivered, hung to one side of the fireplace in the sitting room, pride of place on a wall with few other adornments. Arms crossed and head tilted to one side, Father nodded. Mother and Victor, standing on either side of him, stood likewise. Scraps sat on the floor by Father's feet, looking for all the world as though he was carefully regarding the photo, too.

"It certainly is," Mother said, not sounding proud at all. She glanced over at Victor, and said sourly, "You couldn't even _attempt _to look respectable?"

Victor said nothing. It was true, he didn't look very respectable in the photograph. In fact, he looked nervous, perhaps a little frightened-it showed in his eyes, even though a tiny nervous smile was on his lips. The nervous smile and frightened eyes were mostly because when he'd sat for it a few weeks ago, Mother had been fussing at him and trying to correct his posture from behind the photographer. It always made him nervous when she did that. Regardless, it was certainly something to have an actual _photograph _of oneself. He'd never had one taken before.

"It's a good photograph of Scraps," he offered. And it was. Scraps looked very happy in the photograph, sitting like a good boy on an overturned box and his tongue lolling about in a doggy smile. Hearing his name, Scraps gave a little bark.

Mother, disgusted, threw her hands in the air. "Oh yes!" she said. "Bloody brilliant, isn't it? I paid good money for a lovely photograph of a mutt! Of all the ridiculous…" Mother didn't stop talking, but her words were lost in a fading mumble as she stalked out of the room into the kitchen. Victor couldn't help sighing a little. Mother and her moods and disapproval…

Father watched her go, then gave Victor's hair a ruffle. "Chin up there," he said in an undertone, so that Mother wouldn't overhear. "It's a fine photograph. And don't let Mother make you so nervous, son. Stick up for yourself a bit more! Don't just roll over and play dead!"

From the floor there came a thump, and both of them looked down. Victor gasped, delighted. There lay Scraps, on his back with his feet stiffly in the air, tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth.

"Scraps! You did it!" Victor said, kneeling down to rub Scraps' belly. "What a good boy! Who's my good boy? Scraps is my good boy!" Plainly agreeing, Scraps gave a yip of pure doggy joy, jumping back to his feet and licking at Victor's face.

Bemused, Father looked down at the two of them, watching as they happily tumbled about on the floor at his feet.

"William!" came Mother's voice from the kitchen. "Are you letting Victor roll about on the floor with that dog? It's no way for a quality boy to behave. And he'll get fleas!"

"Of course not, dear!" Father called, even as he walked away to join Mother in the kitchen. Over his shoulder he tipped Victor a wink, and Victor grinned. Left alone, Victor stood, wiped the doggy slobber from his chin, and gave Scraps a good scratch behind the ears. His best friend, and a very smart boy.

"Good boy!" Victor told the dog, sure he'd never be able to say it enough. "You're a very good boy."


End file.
